


Currents of Action

by Charis



Series: Never and Always [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (it's totally canon's fault), (they changed it first), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Developing Friendships, Epistolary, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, Mild Alternate History, References to Historical Events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5442932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charis/pseuds/Charis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He finds the first letter when they are several days on the road. It’s more than a little odd, when it’s one of those mannered, normal things ordinary spouses do, but as he reads he finds himself shaking his head a little. Trust Anne to twist the ordinary.</i>
</p>
<p>Athos and Milady, in letters exchanged during the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Currents of Action

**Author's Note:**

> For everyone who asked whether I was going to write a sequel to Never and Always: this is not that sequel. It _is_ , however, a bridge that leads into it. (As such, it will very likely make no sense whatsoever if you haven’t read that first.)
> 
> Endless piles of thanks to D for being my own personal pom-pom crab and sounding board, and to ScoutLover for beta reading and talking me down off the ledge. You are both wonderful women and I am eternally grateful. <3
> 
> Continuing a theme, title from T.S. Eliot’s _Four Quartets_ \-- this time, from _The Dry Salvages_.

**1\. October 1632 to January 1633**

He finds the first letter when they are several days on the road, tucked beneath a dry shirt he pulls out after an unexpected rainstorm. It’s unmarked, unsealed, just two small folded sheets of paper that rustle against the fabric, but when he opens them the handwriting is instantly recognisable. Anne writes like the churchman who trained her, a somewhat sloppy, slanting form of miniscule cursiva that seems to race across the page, and with a smile he folds the paper again and tucks it into his doublet. Time enough to read it when they stop for the night.

He knows, before he even starts, that the letter is personal; she hasn’t used any of the ciphers for it. It’s more than a little odd, when it’s one of those mannered, normal things ordinary spouses do, but as he reads he finds himself shaking his head a little. Trust Anne to twist the ordinary.

_Husband,_ it begins, bare of any other salutation, and he can almost hear the dry tone, _if this missive finds you less than well already (as I suspect you will unearth it before you reach the border), then I shall be most disappointed. The least you can do, if you’re riding off so swiftly, is to keep yourself from getting injured inside of France. At the moment, that seems to be my job._

She must have written this in those last few days before they departed, while she was confined to the garrison following her altercation. The thought makes him smile a little as it summons the image of Anne, irritated at her enforced idleness, putting pen to paper. And yet if that was the cause then any irritation is largely absent from the paper; more than anything, her tone is light, teasing.

_Enclosed is a cipher I fully intend to use for future letters. I would advise you to learn it and to do the same, since I doubt your reputation would survive it being known that you write sentimental letters to your wife -- mine assuredly should not -- and we both know how important a reputation can be in these times._

_I may only be a woman, and thus know little of war_ (he snorts aloud at that, ignores the half-curious, half-knowing glances from the other side of the fire in favour of continuing), _but even I know that wars of this sort are rarely swift affairs. And knowing that, and naught of when we may see each other again, I only bid you remember your promise to return. And in your absence, I shall hold that oath close and strive for patience. (I shall, most likely, fail; I doubt this surprises you.) But until then, I remain,_

She’s closed the letter with an indistinct scribble that might be her name and might be something else altogether. He sets it aside and studies the cipher she’s enclosed. It’s fairly straightforward, certainly a damned sight easier than the elaborate ones she’d talked him through that she’s set up for Tréville, but despite her words there’s no reason why they should need anything complex for their letters. If there are things to be said that must truly remain secret, he can use one of those instead. This, he suspects, is half a game, but one he’s quite willing to play. In the face of this war (and she’s right, it’s unlikely to be over quickly), they’re all bound to need what small amusements they can to keep sane.

He folds both letter and cipher back together and tucks them into his doublet, secure alongside the lace glove, returning the looks his brothers give him -- one arch, one amused, one questioning -- with as bland an expression as he can muster and sets about banking their fire for the night.

~ * ~

_13 Nov._

Wife -

We have (as your spies have no doubt already reported) arrived at the Spanish border without incident. The younger, both in our number and in the other companies, are spoiling for a fight as a consequence, and I cannot entirely disagree with them. Tensions are high, and will be much improved by a skirmish or two, especially if France proves the victor.

If we are to engage in admonishments, then I feel I must likewise remind you (on Aramis’ behalf, of course) not to overexert yourself. It would be a shame if all of his hard work came to naught, especially when you have others to share in the labour.

It is strange out here. I had not realised how many small things I had grown accustomed to until they were no longer present.

~ * ~

_9 Dec._

Husband -

If that is what you call a skirmish, then small wonder general consensus is that the Musketeers are all madmen. Tréville grinned like a schoolboy when he saw the report, though I do still think he wishes he were with all of you, moreso on the days when the nobility are particularly tiresome. (He wasn’t the one who strutted around for a week thereafter as if he’d won the day singlehandedly. That was enough to make me glad my place is emphatically _not_ at court -- though Constance’s reenactment was quite a sight.)

Things have been quiet in Paris in the weeks since your departure, though not unreasonably so for this time of year. Strangest yet is the garrison, as empty as it is now -- too empty, to the point that Guyot and the others rattle around in all that space. In light of that, I’ve taken Constance up on her offer of lodging rather than simply claiming my share of what is yours. We have not yet begun to conspire; you may assure d’Artagnan of that, lest he worry I mean to corrupt his wife.

~ * ~

_2 Jan._

Wife -

If you are not claiming what is yours by marriage, then why is Guyot telling me you’ve commissioned him for some new blades? That would hardly have come up in casual conversation if you were not around the garrison.

(It’s just as well. That office would go dusty with disuse if someone weren’t there, though I daresay that bed has seen longer stretches without an occupant in the past.)

Do convey the gratitude -- to whomever is appropriate -- of the men for our midwinter gift. Toasts were drunk in the name of king and queen and country, and spending their Christmastide at war was made a far less grim prospect.

~ * ~

**2\. November 1633 to March 1634**

_18 Nov._

Husband -

The queen is once again with child. At this point it is early yet and anything may happen, but she is well and healthy and the physicians have high hopes. It would be well for France to have another prince in the succession, should the worst transpire.

The dauphin, too, is well, and seems to have grown larger every time I see him -- and for all that I am assured time and again it is normal at his age, I am not wholly convinced. He has the look of the Bourbons to him more and more each passing day as well, though it is far too soon to tell which of his parents he may favour in temperament.

The mood here is hopeful, buoyed by the news; I pray that it lasts.

~ * ~

_12 Dec._

Wife -

If God has any kindness in him, young Louis’ temper will favour his mother over his father -- though I would never be so foolish as to tell the king so! -- and the same shall hold true for his younger sibling. Tell the Queen that all are wishing her and this new child well, and that she is remembered in thoughts and prayers here.

It is well that the mood in Paris is improved, for out here is grim. Little occurs in the day-to-day -- a skirmish here, a foray there, and we sit and hone swords we seldom draw to keep the rust at bay and wait for something to change. There is action further to the west, and some talk of going there for a break in the tedium, but so far the generals have kept dissent at a low murmur. Things seem so different than they did a year ago, but when I look back and see the lack of gains and lay them against the lives we have lost, the temper of the men does not surprise me.

Tréville must surely understand. Something needs to happen soon, or we will break on ourselves before the enemy has his turn. If he does not, make him see -- and if he does, make him act.

~ * ~

_11 Jan._

Husband -

I trust that even the most restless of the men is seeing his desire for action well-fulfilled, in light of recent events. Tréville swore for a good five minutes when the first courier came -- it was positively educational -- but this has pulled forces away from Turin and quite probably saved lives and reputations, and since none of the reports show _his_ harmed, he can acknowledge that it was a worthwhile risk without qualm.

(Others are less pleased, though they admit grudgingly it was necessary. I, meanwhile, bow before the illustrious First Minister’s wisdom … and continue to ensure his back is watched. Some days he seems to feel the need to make it abundantly clear how little he cares for politics; does he _enjoy_ making a target of himself?)

~ * ~

_6 Feb._

Wife -

Our ~~Captain~~ Minister has never been particularly fond of tactfulness -- surely you must have seen enough of that by now. Tréville’s a soldier, and he understands well necessity. (He also likely misses being in the field instead of having to deal with the whims and sensibilities of court. If you think his rant on our battle was educational, try him on _that_ subject.)

D’Artagnan is asking me why Constance is sending him lists of Red Guards. I won’t ask whether you’re keeping things from me, as I know that answer already, but is there anything in particular I should be aware of? ~~Especially as you insinuated that --~~

~ * ~

_8 Mar._

Husband -

Should, no, and you may assure the Gascon pup that his wife is merely educating the Red Guards as to the proper etiquette and order of matters here at court. Precedence is important -- I should think that you, mon comte, would understand that -- and those men have a habit of forgetting that their status derived from first Richelieu and then Rochefort, and is no longer the same.

I have only kept secrets with cause, and I would remind you of that fact, and of how I have kept -- and continue to keep -- yours as well.

~ * ~

_24 Mar._

My Lady Wife -

I am, it appears, as poorly-spoken as ever where it concerns you.

Their Majesties have summoned me to court for the prince’s christening; I pray you will allow me to make recompense for my error in person while I am there. Until then I can only assure you that I meant no ill will by those words, and apologise for the offence given. I may not agree with your choices at times, my lady, but I have learned the import of striving to understand and accept. You matter enough that I can do no less.

If you will entertain my apology in person, then I shall see you when I am in Paris. No matter your choice, I remain -

Yours,  
\- Athos

~ * ~

_23 Apr._

Husband -

If that’s how you choose to apologise, I think I must contrive to be insulted more often.

Rest assured all is well between us once more, save for the leagues that separate us. There is no shortage of work to occupy my hours, and no shortage of challenges to occupy my mind, and still my thoughts find time to turn to the border. I trust you and the others to remain safe; my own feelings aside, Constance would certainly make her displeasure plain if you didn’t. As she’s proven quite the apt pupil, I would advise against testing her patience ... (And lest you fear that Her Majesty disapproves of the lessons, permit me to reassure you that it is quite the opposite.)

We knew this would be no quick war, but I did not realise how interminable the months could feel. And it is worse now, after seeing you so briefly, than it was before. Perhaps I shall have to undertake one of these courier runs myself, to ensure it is not another eighteen months before we meet next.

You still favour your right overmuch when sparring. Do be careful; I’d hate it were less of you to come home when this is done, no matter how rakish scars may be.

~ * ~

**3\. December 1634 to March 1635**

_14 Dec._

Husband -

My reports are a confusion; the only certain thing seems to be that France has suffered a great loss and Salses-le-Château has fallen. I do not know if or when this will reach you, nor what state it will find you in.

Be safe. That is all that I ask.

~ * ~

_16 Dec._

A -

Don’t know what you’ve heard yet about Salses. We lost too many, but this family is alright -- a little worse the wear, but we’ll mend. Better than some, for sure, and that’s nothing to complain at when things are so bleak.

You’re hearing from me instead of Athos because he’s sound asleep right now -- he’s just not hardheaded enough to handle falling off his horse (which in all fairness he did to avoid getting killed, but he might have managed it better). Aramis is convinced he’ll be fine, and d’Artagnan killed the Spaniard responsible, and I’ll tell him he’s an idiot when he wakes up, so there’s no reason for you to come down here to do any of those things -- just in case you were thinking about matching his foolishness.

Tell Constance d’Artagnan’s fine in spite of being the most hotheaded lunatic I’ve seen in a while. Aramis is too busy keeping us all patched up to get into trouble or mope. And me, well, I never thought I’d miss Paris’ quiet. It’s downright strange. But we’re okay.

\- P

~ * ~

_13 Jan._

Wife -

It is strange to be behind walls once more; we are temporarily encamped at Carcassonne while the course of this war is determined. Maillé-Brézé and La Porte spend their waking hours arguing strategy while their generals grumble at each other, and we are left to tend to our wounded and mourn our dead and wait for a decision to be made. Aramis has yet to permit me much activity even though my injuries have healed, which means I see a great deal more of those arguments than I should like. I am undecided as to whether I pity them or envy their detachment, that they can consider men solely in terms of numbers and not see the flesh and blood.

A loss is never easy to recover from, and a loss this great is all the harder. It will be better to move again, to _do_ rather than to wait, to gain some victory that allows us all to put, as much as we may, this loss behind us. The retreat from Perpignan on the heels of Salses has only made matters worse, and these marshals … I had never imagined that war would, _at the front_ , involve as much politics as it does; it seems as if perhaps all of us Musketeers have learned from our captain to despise such things.

(There are letters enclosed for the families of those deceased. Please see them delivered, with what small monetary compensation can be added.)

~ * ~

_7 Feb._

Husband -

If it is selfish of me to be glad that you (and your brothers) are well, then let me be damned for selfishness -- because I _am_ glad, and feel no shame for that.

They have no doubt already told you this, but as it bears repeating: do not castigate yourself for that which you cannot control. War is vile and like to take more than it gives, but the losses are to be laid on those who chose it, not on those merely striving to endure. You must do what you must, for your own sake and for those under your command.

Hope for the new year: there are messages from Catalogne in the wind, and murmurs of alliance. (And even with that hope, still no end in sight. Paris feels colder this winter than before.)

~ * ~

_2 Mar._

Wife -

Faint hope now, with Pau Claris dead and the Catalan rebellion scarcely begun. And still the marshals talk and wait and see what comes, and still we wonder how long they expect us to remain here, licking wounds that have healed and chafing at these restraints.

We serve no purpose like this. Tréville would not have had the patience to do so were he still captain; he can expect us to do no better. Even those among us who know the value of a strategic delay know that this is too long, and weakness rather than the strength France was meant to prove in this war.

Delays in winter are one matter, when hemmed in by snow and rain. Delays in the spring, when the sun is out and the world is alive, are another altogether. Catalogne or no, we _must_ act, and the marshals will be made to see that.

~ * ~

_29 Mar._

Husband -

So much for hating politics; discrediting La Porte, deftly done as it was, means you’ve bound yourself to political maneuverings forevermore. People here _noticed_ , Athos, and if they did then certainly others in the army have as well, and will be displeased. And yet the reasons are plain and with good cause, and so I cannot do more than bid you watch your back twice as closely now. (Friends at court, though helpful in peace, mean a good deal less in war.)

At least I ended up getting another rather educative session with the First Minister’s vocabulary of oaths. I’m honestly not sure whether he or Richelieu had the more expansive knowledge in Latin -- it would have made an interesting study indeed.

~ * ~

**4\. October 1635 to December 1636**

_13 Oct._

Wife -

Some days it seems as if the world stands still out here. What motion there is happens either in the smallest of steps, or happens but is offset by a counterpoint elsewhere, and the balance point changes little. We are better off than most, supporting the Catalan raids on the Spanish forces, but these actions are -- as d’Artagnan so aptly describes -- far more reminiscent of a herding dog nipping the flanks of a sheep than they are of soldiers defeating an enemy. They serve a purpose, but one so distant and nebulous that there is little hope of any decisive outcome.

For those left behind, the situation is more trying. There has been illness in some encampments, hunger elsewhere, and as with any story the tales (and the grumbling that follows them) grow with the telling. These men are tired to their very marrow; they miss the homes and families they have not seen in years, moreso when they seem to do nothing but wait. They ask how much longer, and no one has an answer. The west is busy, and the north, and they wonder why they do not go there instead, and the generals keep their own counsel (with reason, true, and yet). It is too easy in that waiting to forget the reasons behind this war, or to doubt that they are true.

~ * ~

_3 Nov._

Husband -

Do you now wear bells, as the sheepdogs do? (That would certainly make your skirmishing more difficult, but you may thank d’Artagnan for a most entertaining image. I should consider something of the sort as a Yuletide gift for the young princes -- a stuffed dog with a blue cloak, perhaps?)

I wish I could reassure you, but even at this remove and with the larger picture laid bare -- the map table in Tréville’s office sees updates more regularly than the one in the council chambers, these days -- there is little sign of change. France takes a victory in the north, Spain takes one in the south; even the greater victories are eaten away in the days and weeks that follow. The ways of men and kings do not seem so different now, after much observation …

~ * ~

_26 Nov._

Wife -

I hardly think the court needs more reason to refer to the Musketeers as the ~~queen’s~~ crown’s dogs; you certainly needn’t help them in further maligning us.

Still, if it takes being dogs to see action, I think most of us would prefer that. As miserable as raids may be in the damp and the cold of winter, they are far better than sitting endlessly behind Carcassonne’s walls. Working with the miquelets has been an education, both in learning their land and in watching them, for though their reasons may seem the same as ours, when one hears them speak one can see the difference in the depths. There have been a great many conversations at night around the campfires on the meaning of abstracts, freedom and self-determination and home and the like.

Maillé-Brézé and Tamarit now speak of a push in the spring, if all goes well in the next few months. Other than these raids, which could be no more than disaffected locals, they seem to be more minded to emulate the bears of the high Pyrénées and sleep out the winter. But they have the men drilling inside the fort again, where before they left them to their own devices, and that seems to be helping even if nothing has been spoken.

~ * ~

_27 Dec._

Husband -

First dogs, now bears -- perhaps I shall have you start comparing courtiers to various beasts when you return, just to see what else you come up with. Though I think a cat might be more apt, lying in wait until the mouse has wandered into just the correct place before pouncing?

If your marshall and his Catalan counterpart are exercising patience in the south, the same cannot be said for the north -- Condé and his son have been pushing the Spaniards in the Netherlands, and seem little inclined to cease despite losses on both sides. Tréville grumbles but thinks they will just manage the victory in the end, despite the cost.

Constance insists that I am needed outside -- I suspect some utterly mundane troubles, as last time it was a snowball fight, but I know better than to argue. She bids me send you all her love and well-wishes for this season, and those of Her Majesty as well, and remind you that you are missed.

~ * ~

**5\. September 1636 onward**

_28 Sep._

Husband -

Even in victory it seems the Musketeers are ill-contented to rest. Have you not had enough of chasing Spaniards around the countryside this past year, that you must continue to do so?

Between the Spanish defeat at Roicroi and the retaking of Perpignan, there has been a renewed sense of hope here within France -- among the nobility the hope of victory, but among the commons this twines with the hope that things may at last be drawing to an end. The absences are sorely felt, and more with each death-notice that arrives.

As for myself: even if the tide has turned, I wonder what this ardently prayed-for victory will actually mean, if it does arrive. Homecomings and reunions, and then what? No war ever truly ends, but changes its face and form and front.

~ * ~

_19 Oct._

Wife -

How on earth is it your messengers continually manage to find us? It astounds me that they succeed, but more than once we have returned to camp to find one waiting. Whatever the cause, I am glad of it -- there is little worse than a lack of knowledge, especially in such times.

With Enghien as marshall, the tempo here has changed further still. Unlike his predecessors, he is willing to gamble far more readily, and thus far (whether through luck or skill or some combination of both) has managed to emerge largely unscathed down here. It will go the more poorly for him if the tide turns, but for now matters are better by far than they have been these past few years.

When the war changes, we shall adapt. It will be pleasant if we are able to do so in the frame of peace, and in Paris once more.

~ * ~

_7 Nov._

Husband -

I wonder at the new marshall; he seemed much the darling of everyone when he was here in Paris, as only a victor can be, and what happens next in the south will surely say much to his course. The King was quite taken with his cousin, though it seems as if Enghien would not do so well did he need to defer at length. (He is well-placed enough if he wants to push for a place in court if he survives; one to watch, for certain.)

As to my riders: surely to tell would be to give away secrets, and a lady must have some of those -- particularly those that ensure her place in society. They know the importance of what they carry, and that is enough to see that they get where they need. As with anything, it is about choosing the right tool for the task. You Musketeers are quite good at _your_ task, but this is different.

I am less sure I believe in your notion of peace, but I would voice no protest to you being in Paris once more. It has been far too long, and we cannot rely on the Queen having another child as a reason to summon you here once more.

~ * ~

_30 Nov._

Wife -

Perhaps -- as you threatened so many months ago -- it is past time for you to show yours how things are handled, and do a message run of your own. (There are questions I would ask you that I shall not commit to paper, of why it is me you send some of these reports to, and not others -- whether there is some greater motive than simply a wife wishing to write to her husband in their time apart.)

You may need to change your tactics now nonetheless; we are set to begin skirmishes deeper into Spain, now that the Catalan strongholds are reinforced. It may mean silence for longer periods of time, and that reports are better directed to another; if not Enghien himself, then perhaps Houdancourt.

In three months, we are set to hand off this duty to another regiment. Do not wonder after us until that time has passed; I promise you yet again: we shall survive and we shall return.

~ * ~

“This weather,” Porthos grumbles, hunching into his cloak, “is downright _vile_. Maybe it would’ve been better to stay back at the fort and be bored for a little.”

Athos doesn’t say anything aloud, though he privately agrees. The snow may be scant along the route they’re following, but it’s been damnably cold, enough that it takes several hours in the weak winter sun before he truly feels human. At this early hour, with the sky just lightening, he’s far more interested in thawing his fingers out enough to saddle Roger than he is in conversation. Perhaps Porthos is right, and it would have been worth the boredom and the argument with Enghien to avoid venturing into the Pyrénées at this time of year.

Perhaps Porthos is right, but even if he is, it doesn’t change things. Enghien is equally right, and they need to keep the Spaniards spread as thinly as possible, and that means raids all along the border. It’ll be better once they’re through the pass, no matter that they’ll be venturing into enemy territory, but right now it’s hard to think far beyond the cold. He curls his fingers more tightly around his steaming mug and thinks how Anne would laugh if she were privy to his thoughts right now, that after his complaints he’s longing for Carcassonne, with its fires and its snug walls -- but at least he’s in good company; other than a few lunatics, the Musketeers are as ill-pleased with this weather as he is.

The sun’s just climbing the ridgeline when he empties his mug and climbs to his feet, pausing to clap Porthos’ shoulder. “Two more days, at this pace. Then we’ll be in Spain and too busy running to freeze or --”

“Captain! _Captain_!”

By now he knows the usual couriers well, and his head jerks up at Motier’s cry. The boy is one of Anne’s most trusted, a potent combination of level-headed and fearless, and if he’s clattering into camp like that, if he’s come to find them _here_ , then something must be terribly wrong -- and the way both boy and horse are gasping for breath when they skid to a stop beside him only bears that out.

“Here,” he says, putting a hand out to steady Motier as he slides off the horse, “slowly now -- what is it?”

The boy just gulps in lungfuls of air and shakes his head, fumbling a leather tube out of his doublet and pressing it wordlessly into Athos’ hands. As others spring into action, one leading his horse away and another helping Motier with a waterskin, Athos cracks open the seal on the small case. There’s just one sheet of paper there, his name scrawled on the outside in Anne’s familiar hand; a sense of foreboding fills him as he unrolls it.

She’s used the cipher from their personal correspondences -- the only one he can follow without having to work through the text letter by letter -- and at first he wonders why anything private would be so urgent, but then his mind catches up with his musings and he has to read the note again, just to be certain he’s puzzled it out correctly. The words remain stubbornly the same, just as damning.

_12 Dec.: L. dead from phthisis; named A. regent before passing. A. and sons safe and healthy at present. Send detachment back immediately as precaution._

_Nothing changes yet. I am certain it will soon, perhaps even before this reaches you. Make haste._

He can’t hear anything for a moment, too shocked to do more than process the terse lines. It seems impossible that something so mundane could take the king, and yet it’s there before him, reality as stark as the black and white of the letter itself, and suddenly all he can think of is what will happen in Paris now that the king presumptive is a boy of not yet five years, which of the possible usurpers will move first, while they’re embroiled in this war with no end in sight -- and god, she’s right, the Queen will need unshakably loyal men at her side immediately to fend against that --

“Athos,” d’Artagnan’s voice shakes him from his daze, snaps him back to his surroundings, to the camp and the men looking at him, waiting for an explanation. “Athos, what is it?”

“The King is dead.” His eyes meet d’Artagnan’s, Porthos’, settle last on Aramis. The note crumples as his fingers clench, frustration at being trapped by circumstance and left unable to do what he would like in this moment, what he _should_ be doing if not for this damned war --

Aramis’ throat works as he swallows; when he speaks, his voice is harsh and full of the emotions that are too plain on his face, the tangle of sudden fear and guilt. “Long live the King.”

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~Blame~~ Credit for the genesis of this fic may partially be laid at ScoutLover’s feet, thanks to joking in comments about letters going back and forth, and partially extended to everyone who asked me whether I was going to write a sequel, because I never intended to -- but then again, I never intended to write the fic in the first place.
> 
> I don’t know when I’ll start posting the actual sequel -- I’ve barely started writing it, and work has been doing its level best to turn my brain into mush and/or eat me alive -- but it’s definitely top of my 2016 list. Tumblr will probably know about it first when things actually get somewhere, and you can always find me at [myalchod](http://myalchod.tumblr.com) over there.


End file.
